Heading Home

Grashok's sharp ears caught the hurried footfalls of one of his scouts returning, the wiry goblin panting heavily as he skidded to a halt. “Bulette,” the scout gasped, his voice trembling. “Up ahead. Big one.”

The mention of the monstrous creature immediately silenced the murmurs of the tribe. Grashok’s brow furrowed as he absorbed the news. A Bulette, sometimes called a "landshark," was a ferocious predator, its thick armour-like plates impervious to most low-level attacks. Its huge maw could tear through goblins like paper, and its ability to burrow meant that even retreat could be perilous. Grashok glanced at his ragtag group, barely recovered from their ordeals in Grakthollow. There was no question: this was a fight they could not afford.

“Alright,” he said decisively, his voice cutting through the unease. “We’ll avoid it. Scout, lead us to a detour.”

The goblin nodded, pointing westward to a winding path that would bypass the Bulette’s territory. Grashok called for the tribe to follow, the wolf cub padding at his heels as the group began to skirt the area. Every step was careful and quiet, their movements deliberate to avoid drawing the creature’s attention.

Their new route led them past a clearing that offered a view of Ingunde, the nearby human township. Grashok froze at the sight of it, and the rest of the goblins followed his gaze. Though not a place where adventurers spawned, the town was well-known for its role in supplying low-level quests. In the past, Grashok had avoided it like the plague, unwilling to risk the ire of adventurers or the locals themselves. But now, he saw it through different eyes.

The settlement of Ingunde lay sprawled before them, a shadow of whatever prosperity it might have once claimed. The wooden palisade encircling the village was a stark indicator of its decline, the sharp stakes weathered and rotting, with gaps so wide a child could slip through unchallenged, while the walkway above was broken in places, battlements missing or half-collapsed. Some sections leaned precariously, as though threatening to collapse under their own weight, and no two watchtowers seemed to agree on their orientation, manned sporadically and by figures slouched with disinterest. Beyond the walls, the town was a patchwork of contradiction. Ramshackle wooden buildings leaned wearily beside freshly reinforced barracks and merchant homes. Many bore scars of recent conflict—burned shutters, boarded windows, and signs of hasty repair. Roofs sagged in places, but others gleamed with new tiles, suggesting the uneven hand of political favouritism. Narrow alleys wound like veins between structures, some quiet and shadowed, others alive with furtive movement—black market runners, thieves, or worse.

Here and there, solid stone structures loomed with a grim sort of pride—old halls from better days, or the private strongholds of Ingunde’s elite. Moss crawled up their sides like mould on forgotten bread.

At the centre of the town, perched on the gentle rise of its low hill, lay what passed for a market. A handful of weary stalls huddled together, their tattered cloth awnings flapping listlessly in the weak breeze. The traders behind them watched with slumped shoulders and the dull patience of people long resigned to disappointment, their meagre wares drawing little more than a passing glance. Beside them loomed a dejected stone temple, its worn façade and sagging steps casting a pall over the hilltop, as though the entire place had been left to decay along with its forgotten purpose.

Surrounding the village, fields stretched outward, but instead of the orderly rows of crops Grashok might have expected, they were overrun with weeds. Once fertile and thriving, the farmland was now a tangled mass of choking vines and brown, brittle stalks. A few weary figures worked the soil with rusty tools, their movements slow and halting, as though burdened by exhaustion. Their gaunt forms were barely more than skin stretched over bone, their hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes telling a story of prolonged hunger.

Some of the nearby buildings bore the unmistakable scars of violence, their doors hanging from twisted hinges, and windows smashed. Scorch marks blackened the wooden walls of several structures, while thin columns of smoke curled lazily from the ruins of burnt-out homes. In one corner of the fields, the remnants of beehives lay scattered—charred husks or shattered wooden frames, their once-busy inhabitants long gone. The eerie stillness of the land was underscored by these signs of recent chaos, hinting at raids or internal strife that had further drained the settlement of its vitality.

Closer to the crumbling huts at the edge of the settlement, others sat in dejected silence, their backs hunched as they stared at nothing. Children with hollow expressions lingered near doorways, their thin arms clutching each other or scavenged objects for comfort. A pair of gaunt dogs nosed around the rubbish heaps, their ribs stark against their mangy coats.

Even the sounds of the town were muted, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional bark of one of the dogs or the distant caw of a crow circling overhead. On the outskirts, the carcasses of what must have been draft animals lay rotting in the open, their flesh stripped away by scavengers. The stench of decay carried faintly on the breeze, mixing with the acrid scent of smoke rising from a few struggling hearths within the town.

Grashok narrowed his eyes, taking in the scene. The humans were in no better state than the goblins he had just rescued. Whatever blight had struck the land, it was indiscriminate in its cruelty. He was no friend to humankind, but he understood that their weakness might one day be an opportunity—or a threat.

He considered the implications carefully. A strong human town nearby could pose a danger, but a weak one might become a potential source of trade, resources, or even allies. For now, it was not worth the risk to engage. He filed the knowledge away, committing the layout and condition of the town to memory.

“Move on,” he ordered, his voice low but firm. “Keep quiet.”

The goblins fell back into line, their steps muffled as they slipped past the town. Grashok led them back toward the safety of the mountains, his thoughts racing. He knew that the challenges before him were only growing, but with each step closer to his dungeon, his resolve hardened. His tribe was growing, and his domain would rise in strength. Whatever lay ahead—be it Humans, Elves, or even the Vermin King himself—he would face it head-on.